At the Bottom of the Ocean: Grief, Breath, and What Came Up.

Last night was my first breathwork class back since my mom passed.

I’ll be honest, I was nervous. I didn’t know what would come up or if I’d even be able to handle it. But what actually showed up in that space surprised me: creativity, emotion, gratitude. A kind of clarity that only seems to surface when you stop resisting what’s already there.

A few images came up during the session. One that really stuck with me was a ship, sailing through rough waters, being steered by Anxiety. I could picture it perfectly. I could feel it. That tight grip, that sense of being moved without control. But at some point, I realized I wasn’t the ship. I was the one grabbing the wheel. My breath became the thing that helped me remove anxiety from the helm and start steering again. That felt big.

Then came something deeper, literally. I saw myself as a dark, shadowy figure sitting in meditation at the bottom of the ocean. Not floating. Not fighting. Just still. Sometimes I felt like I might rise. Other times, like I was sinking further, buried by grief, pressure, memory. And then the view zoomed out.

The ocean floor I was sitting on was shaped like a heart. My mom’s heart.

And when I zoomed out even more, I saw bubble after bubble, other people, other scenes, all sitting on ocean floors like mine. All grounded in her love. All connected to the way she lived, gave, and held people. That image hasn’t left me.

During the most intense part of the breathing, another moment hit me hard — the CPR.

My mom needed breath to live in those final moments.

Her partner breathed for her. Then the EMTs. Then the doctors. Each one trying. Each one giving. Each one offering their breath to keep her here.
And for a while — it worked. She came back.

Not for good, but just long enough for me to get there. Long enough to say goodbye.

As I breathed through that moment last night, I saw myself as all of them. As Rory, the EMT, the doctor. Breathing for her with everything I had, trying to breathe in strength, love, whatever might work. And I just felt… grateful. Grateful for the time those breaths gave me. For the presence they allowed. For the fact that I got to be there.

That’s what breath has become for me. Not just a practice — but a way to hold space for the hardest moments. To make room for grief, not push it away.

It won’t fix anything.
But it will bring things up.
And sometimes, those things lead you closer to what you need.

Because when you open yourself up to what breathwork can actually offer, not just as a technique, but as a tool, you realize it can carry you through more than stress or overwhelm. It can help you sit with the real stuff. The human stuff.

The grief. The memory. The love.

And sometimes, even at the bottom of it all… you realize you’re not alone down there.

— CW

Catherine Warner April 8, 1954 - April 14, 2025